Piece by Piece
by Robynne Raine
Summary: Grieving the loss of Michael, Sonny relfects on his past and wonders if he will ever be happy.


If ever told "life isn't always fair" Sonny Corinthos would agree without hesitation. In fact, he could only remember a handful of times when life seemed to be good to him. There was always something—some sort of tragedy, some sort of threat, some sort of incident—there was always something holding him down, binding him, strangling him full-force. It was something he couldn't define nor escape, but something that knew him all too well and took full advantage of its invisibility.

Kristina with Alexis and Morgan with Carly, Sonny takes himself upstairs into a lonely, barely used study. He closes the door behind him, locks it, and turns off the light. It was quite late at night, but the full moon enabled Sonny to see the entire backyard as he peered out of the window. The moon acted as a spotlight, and the tree house was center stage—Michael's tree house was center stage.

Sonny quickly shuts his eyes closed tight, pulls the curtains over the window, and steps away. Turning to the wall opposite the covered window, he thinks back and wonders if he had ever remembered hurting so much. No, this is by far the worst he has ever hurt—his son was dead—his son was murdered—his son was somewhere lying in a swamp. Every thought tugged at Sonny's heart and it become all too clear as to why they called sadness "pain". It was a pain that couldn't be fixed easily, and, in some cases, couldn't be fixed at all. This is by far the worst he has ever hurt—his son was dead.

Opening his eyes, Sonny finds himself in complete darkness. He makes his way to the door and tries to open it, only to discover it was locked. He pulls and pulls on the door but, despite his efforts, it does not open. Tears sting his eyes and, once again, he feels like a little boy—a helpless child—trapped—afraid—hurting—alone.

Another rush of pain again runs through Sonny as he remembers the last time he was locked in a small, dark space alone and scared. He was just a child then and at that time it wasn't he who had locked him in—it was his stepfather.

"No!" Sonny shouts to no one. He had to forget Deke. It was in the past and it would do him no good to get all worked up over it now. He had to focus on Michael. Michael, too, was in the past, but Sonny didn't want to forget Michael. No, Sonny was going to hold on to the memory of his deceased child for as long as he could.

Sonny's children were so important to him. He loved every single one of them with everything that he was—his physically living children and the children whose spirits and memories lived in his heart. Michael was not the first of Sonny's children to go.

Sonny is now thinking of Lily and Lily's unborn child. It was minutes before their deaths that the expecting couple was celebrating the news of their pregnancy with friends at Luke's. The sound of that car bomb resounds in Sonny's head and, to this day, he can hear it just as clearly as he could that night—that night when both his unborn child and his wife were taken from him in a second.

Now he begins to think of Carly. Carly has born him a beautiful son, but Sonny has never forgotten the child they lost—the child that had to be aborted in order to save Carly's life.

And then there was his daughter—his daughter with Sam. The baby was stillborn and Sonny had to bury his child only a few short months ago. That pain was still fresh in his heart and here he was—grieving over another child and feeling more brutally beaten then he has ever felt in his life.

Why couldn't all of this just stop? Why couldn't he finally be happy? He so wanted to be happy. He was no longer poor—he had his money, his house, and his power, but with every incident his sanity was slowly disappearing; with every tragedy, he fell farther and father away and it became harder and harder to come back every time; and with every breakdown his world was shattered all over again—it was falling apart thought by thought, breath by breath, and piece by piece.


End file.
